


a moment of peace (among this battlefield)

by ayuminb



Series: S7! Canon Divergence Adventures [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (all relevant secrets are out here), (they take it 'slow' - for reasons), (this is just the smutty spinoff of anotther fix-it fic a have), (this timeline follows canon up until the wight hunt), (though that's kinda self-explnatory at this point), (very very vague references to past abuse - like very vague), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, S7E6 Fix-It, S7E6 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 03:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12099648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: [She pulls him into another kiss, gentler this time, swallowing his moans and allowing herself to map every hill and valley, every scar marring his well-defined chest; another first, this boldness, but – it is not like she has never initiated contact with Jon before.]or in which we fast forward a few months; Jon and Sansa find a respite in the midst of The Great War





	a moment of peace (among this battlefield)

**Author's Note:**

> So. THIS is a smutty companion piece to an 'on-going' fic I have, that's basically set after the Wight Hunt, and that I'll post later. Tis NOT related to ["(i cradle in my hands) our brave hearts"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12090981), not at all.
> 
> (I have all my Jonsa fics posted on tumblr btw, but I'll be moving them here.)

His hands  _twitch_ , it is the only clue she has to his hesitation. His hands twitch and he sways on the spot and his sodden cloak drips water onto the flagstones of her solar. He sways back and forth, his eyes burn a path over her body, his breath  _catches_  and—he turns, pushes the wooden door close and bars it. He leans on it, takes a deep breath; Sansa can see his shoulders expand through his soaking cloak.

 

He turns back, walks slowly to where she sits in front of the fire—that chair she’s occupied since The Great War began, hoping and  _yearning_  and praying and worrying, but always at night—he moves to offer his hand, help her stand up perhaps, but stops. Jon stops and he  _trembles_.

 

 _It’s not from cold_ , she thinks; Jon stands there, a step away from her and she can feel the heat coming from him so she knows,  _it’s not the cold_.

 

Outside, a snowstorm rages and were it another day,  _any other day_ , she would have scolded him for being this reckless. For being this  _stupid_  and taking the risk to travel back here, to Winterfell, from—where did his letter said his army would set up camp? She can’t  _remember_. But she knows it isn’t  _anywhere_  close here.

 

Any other day, but not today— _not now_.

 

“Jon,” his name is a sigh of relief.

 

Jon groans and grabs her hands and pull her up and into him; they collide and he winds his arms around her waist, pulls her closer and groans louder. A  _moment_ , he stops for a moment to press a quick kiss to her cheek and then tilts his head and buries his face in her hair—breathing her  _in_.

 

“Sansa,” her name; a prayer.

 

His palms move up her side, ghosting over her chest, over her shoulder, then wander down her spine. He puts a hand at the small of her back, presses  _closer_ , and trembles again; she whimpers. Jon grabs the back of her neck with his free hand, he pauses, thumbs caressing her jaw, and then he’s tugging at her until she’s tilting her head forward, as he moves away – his lips land on her forehead.

 

Tender, loving, and  _wanting_ ; it leave her breathless.

 

“ _Sansa_.”

 

The last time they were alone, they had stood on the battlements, overlooking the frozen lands of their Kingdom, silent and mourning and dreading and Sansa had barely managed to hold back her tears—Jon would be marching north towards the remnants of The Wall with their army.

 

They had shared their first kiss, then.

 

Sansa had wished for time she knew they did not have. Instead, she had simply asked him to be careful— _to come back_. And come back he has; the battles are still raging, The Great War is not won yet. However, he has come back,  _now_ , for a little while.

 

“Jon,” she whispers, lets her fingers move over his chest.

 

She should have had the courage to memorize the lines of his body in the months after his parentage revelation, should have been brave enough to explore her feelings once she had learned of their true nature—once she had learned of  _his_. Because now the feel of it—against her own body, against her hands—would be so achingly  _familiar_.

 

With surprisingly deft fingers, she unclasps his sodden cloak and lets it fall to the floor, then starts unlacing his doublet. When she pushes it past his shoulders and sees his linen shirt also soaked through, she huffs. The sound startles a laugh out of Jon and suddenly he’s  _kissing her_.

 

Their second kiss; a glorious kiss—he slips his tongue past her parted lips, nips and sucks and  _devours_ , and Sansa shudders because this is  _new_  and good. She’s never been kissed like  _this_  before; she loves the way he coaxes her with every push and pull and she thinks she might simply melt from—she  _moans_.

 

Jon groans again, grabs her hips with heartrending urgency and presses forward; Sansa gasps and stills, trying to get used to the rush and the lust and the  _overwhelming_  desire to  _be_ with Jon.

 

Because  _this is_  new to her, regardless of what she has…  _been_  through.

 

Jon stops as well, tries to pull back, but she will not let him. Won’t let him think he’s overstepped a boundary that doesn’t  _exists_  between them. She takes a deep breath, gather her courage— _brave_ , she can be brave—and pulls his shirt over his head.

 

“Gods, Sansa…”

 

She pulls him into another kiss, gentler this time, swallowing his moans and allowing herself to map every hill and valley, every scar marring his well-defined chest; another first, this  _boldness_ , but – it is not like she has never initiated contact with Jon before.

 

He reaches for her again, hands tangling in her hair for a moment before smoothing down her back as they go – he stops once his fingers graze the swell of her bum; he stops and breaks the kiss—and pulls a breathy whine out of her that makes her face burn—and he  _looks_ at her. Sansa presses her palms over his chest and feels his heart hammering within it, feels it beating a steady and rapid rhythm that echoes her own.

 

Jon swallows, blinks, and positively thrums with suppressed energy,  _with longing_ – she knows, can  _tell_ , it’s right there for all to see. His thumbs play with the laces of her gown; he waits.

 

He looks at her, and he  _waits_  and oh, Sansa thinks she’s drowning— _oh_ , he’s asking permission; he’s  _asking_  and that realization might just be more intoxicating than everything they’ve done until now.

 

Which, to be fair, hasn’t been  _much_.

 

She reaches a hand down to grab the strings of his breeches and tugs. And there’s his answer; his pupils blow wide and he tilts his head forward – and there’s  _her_  answer.

 

Later, she won’t be able to recall how they get to her bed; will remember her back colliding with door to her bedchambers with enough force to startle a gasp out of her, a gasp that turns into a laugh as the door gives in and they almost fall. Sansa knows she will forever remember the look on Jon’s face as he unlaced her damp gown, the tenderness of his touch.

 

She doesn’t remember how she lost it or her stockings, or when he discarded his boots. Only that now they’ve stumbled onto her bed.

 

Her shift is gathered around her thighs and while a part of her, a  _small_  part, tells her she should feel exposed – she focuses on feeling the heat simmering under her skin, a slow burn that makes her ache and tingle all over and leaves her smallclothes embarrassingly damp.

 

Makes her want to pull Jon down until he lies completely on her.

 

But Sansa doesn’t and contents herself by running the tips of her fingers over his jaw and down his neck and across his collarbone; watches him shudder and pant and  _want_  and strain for control.

 

“ _Sansa_ ,” he sounds so pained, “sweet Sansa… you’ll be the death of me.”

 

“That won’t do,” she says, tracing his lower lip; she lets out a chocked moan when his tongue darts out and sweeps over her questing fingers. “I’d rather be the life of you.”

 

His lips brush over her cheek – he kisses her so softly she thinks she might cry, he whispers her name so reverently she knows he thinks this is a dream. Then he’s caressing her thigh, his touch achingly soft, until he slips under her shift and is toying with the strings holding her smallclothes together—he halts, and she thinks she ought to pinch him for torturing her so.

 

“ _Jon_.”

 

A whine, there’s no denying it.

 

“I want to see you,” he replies, pressing his forehead to hers, “ _Gods_ , I want to take you, make you  _mine_ —but I want to make this good for you more, I want to make you happy  _more_ , Sansa.”

 

She blinks, tries to comprehend his words but Gods it’s hard, he keeps pressing kisses on her lips and the hand that’s not holding up his weight keeps toying with the edges of her smallclothes, scattering her thoughts to the howling winds.

 

_See me? He is seeing… oh._

 

Oh,  _oh_ , so that’s what he means. Oh, Sansa feels like her heart is going to  _burst_.

 

Because Jon knows about the scars that litter her body; has not  _seen_  them, but he knows they’re  _there_. And he still…  _still_.

 

“So  _see_  me, take me, make me  _yours_ ,”  _as I’ll make you mine_ , she wants to say; instead, she kisses him, “make this good for me.”

 

 _Because you already make me happy_ , she thinks.

 

So, he does. Taking his time, Jon kisses her lips lightly before moving down her neck. He breathes her in, licks a stripe on skin up to her jaw and groans; he mumbles something, but Sansa is too lost in the sensations his lips evoke in her as nips and licks his way to her chest. She tugs his hair free of its restrains; she always did like his curls and the way they would tumble about his face.

 

She gasp when his lips close around her hardened nipple through her shift, squirms when his hands wanders up from her thigh to knead her unattended teat. He rolls one nipple between his fingers while enthusiastically sucking on the other, and she both wants him to keep doing that forever and stop because she suddenly can’t take it. Running her fingers through his unruly locks, Sansa ultimately chooses the former.

 

It’s Jon the one to draw back, with a gentle squeeze at her teats, pulling her along with him until she sits on the edge of the bed, then he kneels at her feet. His heated gaze makes her feel hot all over, though the confusion at what he plans to do now tempers it.

 

“Jon…”

 

He starts by placing a light kiss on the inside of her knee, then another further up and up and  _up_ , his fingers follow along, skimming ahead till he’s got a hold her hips.

 

“Can I take them off?” he asks, tugging at her smallclothes, and smiles when she nods; he slides them down her legs and off and places kiss after kiss on the skin just below her shift. “And this,” he says, motioning to the only remaining garment covering her modesty, if that. “Can I take this off as well?”

 

Jon waits until she answers – and it suddenly occurs to her that he’s always waiting for her to give her consent. It occurs to her that he has given her the control she lacked before, that she’s been denied; and she loves him for it.

 

She loves him for many things—mostly, she love him for being just  _Jon_.

 

Sansa stands, unlaces her shift, and lets it fall at her feet. His breath fawns over the tops of her thighs, makes a rumbling sound deep in his chest as his hands move over her the back of her legs and her bum—she gasps and savors this heady feeling enveloping her. Jon urges her to sit on the bed, leans forward to place an open-mouthed kiss on her belly, then another and one  _more_ , before he sits back on his heels.

 

“You’re so…”

 

She can’t help it, the look on his  _face_ —the moan escapes before she’s properly aware of its existence.

 

The hesitation finally sets in when he’s shouldering her knees apart, when he’s kissing and nipping and licking his way up her inner thigh. The rasp of his beard is such a contrast to the softness of his lips, Sansa feels overwhelmed. A part of her is embarrassed enough to want to push him  _away_ —the hand resting on the side of his head is proof of this. But her curiosity is bigger and more insistent and urges her to find out  _what_  he plans to do, so when he pauses to look at her one more time, lifting one of her legs onto his shoulder, she nods resolutely.

 

The sharp jolt of pleasure is certainly not what she expected.

 

Her hips jerk forth at the first stroke of his tongue sliding through her folds; her breath hitches at the second—heart stutters, trips, skips several beats at the third. His tongue flicks swiftly over a nub that has her back arching; Sansa falls back onto the bed, muscles tensing and mind reeling.

 

“Oh,” she grips his hair, locking her legs around his head, and whimpers, “oh,  _Jon_ …”

 

Jon does not relent; he works his tongue over her nub alternating between slow strokes and rapid flicks. Her hips buck up trying to both press harder into him and pull away, and she feels him press his arm over them to keep her as still as possible. It’s too much, the sensations are too intense – she moans and whimpers his name and trashes and  _can’t_.

For all she’s swept over in the pleasure Jon is giving her, the moment she feels one of his fingers breach her, Sansa  _freezes_  – regretfully so, but it is a reaction she can’t quite control. Jon slows down; drops feather light kisses on her mound and makes a trail up to her navel, then looks at her, and waits for her to relax.

 

“Alright?”

 

Sansa knows he will stop if she asks, knows he will smile and probably kiss her forehead and leave it at that. Help her into bed and lie next to her until they both fall asleep. That will be it. So she breathes in, breathes out, and tugs on his hair.

 

“Alright. Don’t stop…”

 

He presses one last kiss on her belly before retracing his steps – kissing more gently, licking slowly at her folds and then, his finger resumed its motions.

 

 _It feels good_ , she thinks, startled. The tension melts and her legs give a little, falling further apart, the pleasure builds again with his careful attentions; she feels his finger twist and turn and suddenly there’s  _another_ , and Jon’s rubbing a spot that has her body  _humming_.

 

“Gods, Sansa… I could spend a lifetime tasting you and not tire of it…”

 

His words, his gruff voice, it all unfurls the heat that has been coiling within her, spiraling it out. But it’s not enough; Sansa doesn’t know exactly what remains just out of her  _reach_ , but wants it desperately, chases it with every uncontrolled pull on Jon’s hair, with the very angle of her hips to give him better access to her—with every press of her heels on his back.

 

Then he closes his lips around her nub, at the very same time his fingers curl inside her; Jon hums and she knows no more.

 

Vaguely, belatedly, among the blinding pleasure the courses through every fiber of her body, among the arching of her back, the fall and the scream that never makes it past her lips, Sansa is aware of  _Jon_.

 

Jon and his gentle coaxing so she relaxes the fingers tangled in his hair, his coarse beard scratching along her sensitive skin as he climbs up her body. His soft lips skimming over her breasts and up until he’s breathing against her neck.

 

When she manages to gather her scattered thoughts, manages to focus on the world around her – on him, Jon is watching her attentively, a slow, lopsided smile tugging at his lips.

 

“Alright?”

 

Sansa grabs the back of his neck and draws him into a kiss; the thrill of tasting herself on his mouth is  _intoxicating_.

 

“Alright,” she says, and then, “Jon?”

 

She hopes he hears her unvoiced question, is immeasurably grateful that he does.

 

“Only if you want.”

 

“I do, very much.”

 

He drops a kiss to her nose, then wraps an arm around her and rolls onto his back. Her hair spills over her shoulders and his breath catches on his chest; Jon beholds her almost as if he can’t quite believe his eyes.

 

With a nervous smile, Sansa braces her hands on his chest and pushes herself up, properly straddling his hips. The blush climbs up her chest at the feel of him straining against his breeches; she doesn’t know how to go on from here, beyond unlacing him. Squirms self-consciously, pausing a moment before pulling the clothes down, and watches in something akin to wonder as his cock springs free of its confines. Curious, without thinking, she traces the curve of it from tip to bottom, forcing a moan out of Jon – he grips her hips and surges up, rubbing against her folds.

 

“Gods, Sansa…”

 

It takes a little of maneuvering around to pull his breeches down his legs, after that, and for him to kick them off, but they manage. He looks at her then, so she nods and braces herself on his chest again; Jon helps her, one hand holding onto her hip while the other holds his cock to guide himself in. Sansa uses every bit of willpower to prevent her mind from  _wandering_ , to stay in the here and now. To keep her eyes open and focused on the man beneath her as she lowers herself onto him.

 

When he’s fully inside her, she can’t stop her eyes from closing shut. A mounting panic tries to claw itself out but she refuses to let it  _ruin_  this. Does her very best to push it back, but.

 

 _Deep breaths,_  she thinks, almost desperately,  _take deep breaths. Take deep breaths…!_

 

She bites her lip, despairing, raging at the thought that she might never truly be over—

 

“Hey, hey,” he’s soothing, trailing his hands gently over her sides, and her back. “Look at me. My sweet Sansa, just look at me.”

 

So she does, and she breathes, in and out, in and out; Jon smiles, grabs her hands, kisses each finger until she manages to relax. Then he leans up to brush a kiss over her lips, her cheeks, her forehead. He kisses her over and over until she smiles.

 

“It’s me, it’s just me.”

 

_It’s Jon, just Jon. My Jon._

 

“Alright,” a whisper, and pushes gently at his shoulders until he lies back.

 

Inexperienced as she is, she has heard some things about bedding to have a vague idea of what she’s supposed to do while in this particular situation. Way back when, before everything, when she was still innocent and naïve and full of dreams and the prospect of doing anything more than lie on her marriage bed was simply scandalous. As her septa was wont to point out.

 

 _The kitchen maids called it riding,_  she recalls.

 

The first cant of her hips is surprisingly pleasant, and she surmises it must be more than that for Jon to suddenly tighten his grip on her while hissing out his pleas to go on. Sansa repeats the motion again, and again, and  _again_  – is mesmerized by the look on his face, the twist of his mouth and the ragged breath, the way her name falls from his lips in a moan that urges her to quicken her pace.

 

At one point he starts to rock his hips into hers, adding to the friction, helping reach that perfect angle where she’s pressing and rubbing that little spot Jon had seemed to be so fond of before. And right  _there_ , the overwhelming feeling that had swept over once already begins building again. Steady, unstoppable, and good,  _oh so good_.

 

A particular hard thrust sends her tumbling forward, dislodging the moan trapped on her throat as she lands on her elbows. Jon grunts and thrust harder, he breaks her pace but Sansa is too far gone to care – she can feel the pleasure about to burst through her just out of her reach, just  _so_. A little more, she thinks, and she can topple over the edge.

 

“Jon,  _oh_  Jon… I can—I just…!”

 

Pressing a hand against the small of her back, Jon keeps her hips steady through his rougher motions; his free hand cups the back of her head and pulls her into a sloppy kiss.

 

“Sansa, I love you,” he whispers the words into her lips, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

Then – the tension breaks, the heat’s spiraling out through her body, and she’s  _falling_. She thinks she moans, she can’t be sure, her body trembles and she wraps her arms around Jon’s neck to ground herself. Vaguely, Sansa feels him thrusting one, two, and  _three_  more times before he grabs her waist and pulls her up suddenly—he groans right into her shoulder.

 

After the rush is over, she becomes aware of the mess he’s made on both their stomachs, his seed smeared between them. Surprisingly, there’s a pang of disappointment tugging at her chest, but she doesn’t let it linger for long. It’s obvious why he did it, and she is grateful that he reacted on time; she has no way to acquire moon tea now.

 

“That was…” there are no words to even  _begin_  to describe how utterly happy she is right now, so she doesn’t try and nuzzles his neck instead.

 

“Aye, it was,” his voice is low and breathy, and that it  _still_  does things to her—even now, after  _just_ —is amazing; the little squeak that escapes her parted lips when he rolls them over, however, not so much. “Let me…”

 

Jon drops a slow kiss to her lips before getting out of bed. Sansa thinks she ought to ask where he is going, what he plans to do, but she’s so deliriously sated and  _happy_ , it matters little – as long as he returns to her side soon.

 

And he does, with a damp cloth that he uses to clean the remnants of his spilled seed drying on her skin, as well as his. Well, she hadn’t thought of that.

 

“There,” he says, and throws the cloth away; his smile this time is sheepish as he maneuvers them both under the furs. “I’m sorry about that mess.”

 

“I…” and just like that, suddenly, Sansa feels a rush of shyness hit her, “I do not mind.”

 

Silly, considering what had just transpired between them; her cheeks feel too warm and she draws her knees to her chest under the furs, trying to cover as much of herself as possible.

 

 _But Jon’s already seen everything,_  she thinks, in a futile attempt to calm the thundering of her heart,  _he’s already touched everything._

 

It’s Jon, sitting next to her, much the same, and pulling the furs as high as they can go without wrestling them from her hands – color brightening his face and a boyish sort of wonder making his eyes shine as he looks at her. It’s the realization that he feels as shy as she does what makes her burst into uncontrollable giggles and pulling a grin out of him.

 

Dawn will come, sooner than she would like, and Jon will ride off to battle again. But this. This moment, this night? It is something no one, and nothing, will be able to take away from her.

 

Ever.


End file.
